Beyond the Pale

Burden of Proof

The endless frigid drizzle had just turned into a downright nasty icy downpour by the time Castorius got to shelter on the patio of the Windpeak Inn at Dawnstar.

He stomped the mud stuck on the bottoms of his boots onto the boards, and tried to dry his hair as well as he could with his hands, before realizing the futility of trying to look decent in conditions such as these. It was somewhat absurd to think that in just a month or so the land here would be covered in snow, and the air would be as cold as a Frost Giant's arse.

He took one more disdaining look back at the sludge-sodden cobblestones before pushing though the door—wishing he could just step out of the entire province, never to return.

Upon stepping inside, the inviting smell of food and the less inviting odor of fresh and not-so-fresh liquor hit him in the face, accented by the heat of the large fire pit roaring at the middle of the hall. The place was packed full, as if the people had been driven there to seek refuge from the bad weather. Though of course they could have simply stayed home, too.

The weather, as it went, was as good an excuse for getting tanked as another.

Castorius scoped out the clientele populating the tables by the sidelines. Mostly the usual raggedy plebs out for a few hours of respite from their trudging existence of meaningless toil. How blurring out your faculties at the cost of reality just coming back to smack you over the head a few hours later was supposed to help, that much he had never been able to decipher.

Suppose it was simply another manifestation of their general sorry, deluded state—part of the grand conditioning by which they were kept in servitude to their masters. Some people could not be helped.

Most of them, in fact.

As irony had it, as much as he disagreed with the general purpose of these places—in addition to the nominal function as places to spend your night—Castorius had to admit to quite enjoying their general atmosphere. At least if one managed to ignore the people. But disregarding them, the warmth and the hum of the fire-pit, the tufts of smoke twirling lazily, and the timber interior darkened by decades worth of soot, they always made him feel welcome. It felt almost like returning home, especially when coming in from some nasty weather like this. And around here that was pretty much always the case.

The Bard was in the process of tuning her lute by the bar counter at the front of the hall, and the sight of her tugged at the corners of Castorius' lips. Though the days of her youth were now behind her, she was still a delightful sight with her lusciously plump breasts that she did not exactly attempt to hide—what with that generous neckline of her tavern girl's gown and all.

In fact, the neckline was so low that every time she bent forwards you could practically hear everyone in the room hold their breath. Maybe this would be the time something slipped out. But that never seemed to happen. She most likely did it on purpose, in hopes of some extra tips. No doubt it worked, too.

Unfortunately Castorius had not had a "intimate performance" from her. As of yet, anyway; and not due to lack of trying. But the way it was with these things, one simply had to be patient. Keep the goal inside, keep working at it. Diligence and fortitude, those were the keys to success, always and ever. That said, he didn't exactly visit these parts often enough to keep a solid effort going. Not that he could be blamed for it.

The woman finished her tuning, strummed a couple chords, and started to sing. Her voice was a less than impeccable match for the rest of her, but then who was perfect? What was her name again? Katria? Something like that, anyway.

Castorius' mood dampened as he remembered that there were more pressing issues in his agenda. With reluctance, he tore his eyes from the the bard's chest—jiggling pleasingly at each stroke of the lute—and searched the tables for the considerably less aesthetic people he'd originally come here to see.